Maya Song had always known she was different.

Well, sort of. She didn’t eat bugs when she was little, or tell random children Santa isn’t real when she was in elementary school, but she had always known there was something that set her apart from other kids.

It could be her imagination. In school, Maya always enjoyed making up silly little characters in her head, when she probably should be paying attention to the teacher. Most of her teachers would snap at her when they caught her staring out of a window, or doodling in her workbook. One time, Maya’s mother had to be brought in because her “behavior had degraded” and they “were worried about her future”. Maya had heard this slop a million times, and usually she would just slouch lazily in her chair waiting for the professor to finish his rant; but it was her mother’s side glance that forced her spine to suddenly shoot straight, sucking her lips into her mouth, as if she would say something she would regret.

Maya and her mother never had an amazing relationship. Maya preferred motorbikes, and heavy metal, and sticking posters of Black Sabbath on the peeling wallpaper in her bedroom, most of them with a staple gun so her mother couldn’t tear them down. Once, she had to hide her M*A*S*H* figurines under her bed after she found half of them broken on the floor after one of her mother’s rages.

But her mother expected the best – primmed petticoats, too-tight corsets, and shouting when things aren’t going her way. Maya used to hide under her blankets, pressing her palms into her ears and whispering to herself to block out her mother’s shouting.

Just in general, Maya’s mother wasn’t a very good mother – looking back, she was more of a sovereign. She had pinched, dark eyes and a permanent scowl, yet, somehow, was still youthful, even into Maya’s teens, with clear skin and the light airy voice she uses everywhere – apart from when it is just her and Maya. Her hair was always preened and voluminous, curls upon curls, shaping her face beautifully. Her locks were a deep ebony – a mane that swamps her neck like an elegant snake. She walked with confidence.

Sharp hair, for a sharp woman.

Maya couldn’t help but feel jealous of her mother – how she always looked gorgeous and unassuming and how her eyes gave nothing away – Maya never thought she had any of those desirable qualities.

Maya grew up in her mother’s shadow. She was never treated like a child but more as a trophy, being taken to fancy events, wearing clothes that were far too tight and itchy, forced to hug people she has never met and will never see again. It was this lifestyle that her mother demanded, so Maya had no choice but to her mother’s wishes.

But Maya wanted more. She wanted to be free from her mother, to have the ability to choose what she desires whenever she desires to. But she wanted one thing above all of that, the one thing that her mother forbid.

Maya wanted love.

It was the idea that made her toss and turn at night, hugging her stuffed toys, kissing their foreheads and silently wishing they would kiss her back. It was the thing that would make her grimace and internally groan with envy whenever she sees couples doing literally anything. But in her imaginary world, love was different. Different in how it is perceived and judged.

Oh, how she yearned for love.

Unfortunately, it was the one thing that Maya’s mother, above all, refused.

Well, the love Maya dreamed of, anyway.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Maya whispers quietly to herself, as she gently presses an elevator button with a shaky finger. She screws her eyes tight as she guides herself through an impromptu meditation, holding a bunched bouquet of daffodils wrapped in plastic in her closed fist.

She tugged at the hem of her cotton sweater, far too childish for a 20-year-old, but Maya couldn’t care less.

It’s not that it’s scary or intimidating, it's just that Maya is going to see her mother.

In Hawkins’ hospital.

For the last time.

Maya absentmindedly chews on her lower lip as thoughts begin flying through her at a million miles a second. She has to brace herself somehow, and her preferred method is to imagine every single possible scenario. At least then, she has a script she can rattle off if the need arises.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

The elevator doors gently ding and slide open to a melancholy hallway. The walls are painted with a dusty white; the floors stained haphazardly with some unknown substance that makes Maya’s brows furrow and stomach turn. Again, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, deep breath out--

“Miss Song?”

Maya’s eyes widen at the sudden appearance of a nurse. Her candy cane coloured scrubs don a name tag – Jane. She’s a bit shorter than Maya, with fiery red hair and a shining smile.

A smile that makes Maya’s own lips curl up at the edges.

It dawns on Maya that she hasn’t said anything, just staring at Jane, but then she nervously blurts out “Right, yes, that’s me …” She’s still smiling goofily, and it makes the cute nurse giggle slightly – a small chuckle that makes Maya’s heart do a backflip.

“Ms Song will see you now”

Maya’s heart sank slightly – both at the prospect of seeing her mother, but also watching Jane walk away. It takes a moment and one look back from her to realise Maya is supposed to be following her. Maya sort of runs to catch up with Jane, not wanting to seem too eager to walk next to her. They stride down the dusty halls, in (what Maya perceives as awkward) silence, before stopping in front of a door – Room 18.

Jane steps in first, saying a small “Hi,” before Maya walks in, head down slightly, the daffodils grasped even tighter with nerves.

Maya’s mother is … different. She’s much thinner, but not in a healthy manner – she looks like all the muscles in her have receded. Her hair, once a lustrous ebony, is now bone grey, and splashed messily over her pillow. Her face is droopy, wrinkly, and... Maya refuses to believe it, but she doesn’t look young anymore.

Maya’s eyebrows rise slightly, as a weak smile is directed her way.

“Thank you, Jane”

Guess it wasn’t. Maya turns her neck, and offers Jane a small smile (which is reciprocated, making Maya’s neck twitch) as she leaves.

Maya turns back. Her mother’s voice was strangely gentle and airy – usually it’s tough and intimidating. Maybe her mother had changed while she was in hospital. Maybe she had become coyer and sweeter, and the years of perfectionism and tyranny were behind her.

Of course, Maya is wrong.

As Maya’s bright eyes met her mother, all kindness and tenderness had vanished, replaced with disdain and her signature scowl. It unnerved Maya how quickly she would change.

“U-Uh, here, Mom.” Maya says lightly, placing the wrapped bouquet of daffodils on her bedside table. “These are for you.”

“Well, who else would they be for.” Her mother snatches them sharply, looking down at the petals. She seems to be analysing them with a sneer, eyes narrowed. Suddenly, her head darts up, and she slams the bouquet on the table beside her with enough force to make Maya flinch.

Here we go.

“You incompetent girl!” She hisses, “Daffodils? You should know I prefer fuschias” It really shouldn’t, but the tone and look she receives from her mother makes Maya’s eyes instinctively well up.

She should be used to it by now – the harsh words, not being good enough, but something about her mother just makes Maya want to softly burst into tears. Unluckily, her mother views it as a sign of weakness.

“Oh, don’t start crying now, Maya” she sneers, sitting up slightly, “No man will ever want a wimp as his wife.”

Of course, she mentions that.

Maya gasps sharply through her teeth, her head bowing down as she pinches the bridge of her nose, blinking back tears. “Mom, please …” she pleads softly. She tries to straighten up, but the weight of her mother’s gaze makes her back curve down.

“Don’t slouch, Maya”

“Sorry, mother”

There’s a beat of silence. Maya bites her tongue as a silent tear dribbles down her cheek, unseen by her mother. Her posture remains stiff, her eyes refusing to leave the blotchy brown carpet.

“Maya.”

Maya looks up, cheeks blotted with wiped tears.

“Get out.”

Maya stands for a moment. She presses her lips together as her mother stares her down.

“Get. Out.”

Her mother repeats, her voice harsh.

“Yes, mother.”

Maya obeys, her voice barely a whisper. She wrings her wrists as she steeped slowly toward the door. Her mother isn’t even looking at her when she leaves, instead focusing on some object outside of her window.

As soon as she walks into the hallway, tears start to flow down her cheeks. She tried wiping them away, but it was no use, as more just started falling from their ducts. Breathing shakily, she slowly makes her way back to the elevator.

She tries to take a quivering deep breath through trembling lips, but it falls on sprinting lungs as Maya speeds her pace.

The quicker she walks, the more tears form, and she can’t wipe away her tears with her sleeve anymore — it's no use.

She lets out a sob, her lungs gasping, eyes bloodshot and her back hunched over.

She allows another and another sob to escape, and she crumples to the ground of the elevator, curling up as she bawls into her cotton jumper, the one her mother hated for being too casual and covering.

It seemed like hours, but it was only minutes. She had only earned a couple of looks from others within the hospital, and she silently sniffles, picking herself up from the floor to press the ground floor.

Her back hits the elevator, and she sinks to the floor, biting her lips as her eyes threaten to spill over again once the thoughts start to come back.

She hadn’t accounted for any of this.

It was as soon as the elevator doors shut that she sees a flash of fiery red hair belonging to a nurse, laughing as she comes out of a room with another. Their eyes met briefly.

Maya’s eyes softened, as did hers.

Jane.

The elevator doors shut.